Page 2 of Taken By the Exiled Laird

"That willnae be necessary. Two ales. Two stews. That's all," Theon interrupted sharply.

Lorna looked first surprised, then offended by his tone. She shot him a look, then smiled at Graeme once more. "Yer brother isnae very polite," she observed. "But I'll bring yer drinks and meals nonetheless."

She moved away without another glance at Theon. Once she was out of earshot, Graeme lightly punched Theon's arm over the table. "Was that really necessary?"

"Ye're the one bein' unnecessary," Theon reminded him. He kept his voice calm, no trace of his irritation within it. "We arenae supposed tae be makin' a spectacle. Need I remind ye that if anyone discovers what we're carryin' in these bags, or, worse, if someone was tae recognize us…"

"I ken, I ken," Graeme said with a sigh. "But God above, Theon. The lass is bonny, the music is fine, and the place is so crowded that we'd have tae be fair unlucky tae be spotted. Have these long years made ye forget how tae live entirely?"

"They've taught me tae survive," Theon countered in a tone that brooked no argument.

Lorna returned a few minutes later, expertly balancing a tray with stew, two ales, and two thick slices of bread. She arranged everything on the table, then, with her back to Theon, addressed Graeme once more. "Is there anythin' else I can get ye? Anythin' at all?"

Graeme caught Theon's eye. Theon shook his head slightly, but he already knew by the grin on his friend's face that it was too late. "Aye," Graeme said, his attention fully on Lorna once more. "Forgive me for bein' crass, but where might a man go when nature calls upon him?"

Theon groaned internally.

But Lorna seemed to know what Graeme was really asking immediately, and her smile grew wicked with anticipation. "I can show ye, sir, if ye like. So ye dinnae get lost."

"That would be fair grand of ye," Graeme agreed. He took a swig of his ale then winked at Theon before getting to his feet. "Lead the way, Lorna."

"I'm eatin' yer stew!" Theon called after him.

Graeme laughed and waved a hand before disappearing into the crowd.

An hour passed.

Theon ate and drank in silence, and he did indeed end up finishing Graeme's bowl as well as his own. But while Graeme was no doubt ensuring that Lorna would not forget this night for a long time to come, Theon put the time to better use. His silence was not passive, it was tactical. He learned much simply by listening to the conversations of those around him, though it was still difficult to hear that, even now, the MacKenzie name was still synonymous in most minds with traitors.

Fortunately, however, most of the gossip focused on other things—the scandalous news that Lady McDonell had been secretly meeting with the groundman or how the McLeods and Grants had escalated their disagreements over the price of barley. Small, sometimes trivial pieces of gossip they might be, but Theon took them all in, knowing that any single item could be critical before he knew it.

Graeme returned, his shirt untucked and his hair a mess, swaggering a little as he collapsed down into his seat. "Energetic lass," he said, grabbing his ale and swigging from it, apparently unbothered that it had now been sitting for an hour. "Did ye really eat me dinner, ye bampot?"

"I did," Theon replied. "It was delicious."

Laughing, Graeme asked, "And did ye hear any good gossip when I was gone, oh prince of secrets? I ken that's what ye've been doin' the whole time. Is some lady torn over the color of a frock? Some laird desperately tryin' tae hide his latest bastard?"

"Most likely, aye, but I've discovered somethin' more interestin' than any of that," Theon said. "There's tae be a weddin', it seems."

"Oh?" Graeme asked. "One of the lairds strengthenin' the so-called alliance by sellin' off one of his daughters, I suppose? We all ken they only have the lassies in the first place for currency."

Theon grunted. "Aye. Though I wouldnae feel too sorry for the lass. Kennin' what she's like, I'd assume she's more than eager for the status the match will bring."

"Oh?"

For a moment, Theon was back in time—back to when he was a boy, glancing at a pretty girl in a corridor, not quite daring to make the move. Then he returned to himself, a much older man hardened by exile, far from the temptation of a lovely face.

"Briana Cameron is tae be wed tae Malcolm MacFarlane soon enough. Apparently the whole alliance is ready tae celebrate the occasion."

Graeme chuckled, draining his ale. "Briana Cameron and MacFarlane's pigheaded son. Who'd have thought? I'm surprised Iain is sittin' back and allowin' it. He used tae be fair protective of his wee sister when we were lads, and everyone kens Malcolm's way with women."

"It's been a long time since we were lads," Theon reminded him gravely. "They're both grown now and reapin' the benefits of their fathers' good fortune." His lip curled in angry spite at those last words. "Two spoiled heirs, unitin' two clans rich with gold and blood. A perfect match, as I said. They were made for each other."

Raising his mug in solemn agreement, Graeme drained the last of his ale. He turned to call over to a serving girl to bring them more, then froze.

"Theon," he said urgently in a tone very different from his usual playful teasing.

But Theon had already noticed. He gripped his sword hilt reflexively as his muscles tensed, feeling first one, then two, then many sets of eyes lingering upon them. Had they been talking too loudly? Had someone simply recognized them? Maybe the girl Graeme had entertained had let something slip? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that they got out of there. Now.